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WEIGHTS 
AND MEASURES 



n 



WEIGHTS 
AND MEASURES 



BY ^ 

FRANKLIN P/ADAMS 

Author of " Tobogganing on Parnassus," 
" In Other Words," " By and Large" 




GARDEN CITY NEW YORK 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 

I917 






Copyright, 1917, by 
DOUBLEDAY, PaGE & COMPANY 

All rights reserved, including that of 

translation into foreign languages, 

including the Scandinavian 



OCT 31 1917 



COPYRIGHT, 1914. 1915, 1916, 1917, BY THE TRIBUNE ASSOCIATION 
COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY THE REPUBLIC PUBLISHING CO. 



0G1,A477372 

-'1 ■ 



To DuLCiNEA — if you know whom 

I mean — this volume 

is dedicated 



n^MY DON'T YOU DO SOMETHING 

^^ BIG?" 

The Comic Bard is supposed to sigh 

For the skill and the power to make you cry; 

He's supposed to yearn, when he has the time. 

To make you sob as you read his rhyme. 

That thought in many a hard may he; 

I only know how the thing strikes me. 

For mine aim is low, mine amhish atomic: 

I'm tickled to death when they call me comic. 



VH 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

"Why Don't You Do Something Big?" . vii 

A Penny's Worth of Poesy 3 

The Village Munitions Co., Inc. ... 5 

The No-Longer-Merry Ancient Monarch . 7 

To W. Hohenzollern: APIea .... 8 

Air: "Captain Jinks" 9 

Music; and the Savage Breast .... 10 

The Indignant Captain of Industry . . 12 

The Patriotic Merchant Prince .... 14 
Song: " Don't Tell Me What You Dreamt 

Last Night" 15 

The Seamy Side of Motley 17 

Summer Night, Riverside 21 

Voices 23 

What They Ask 24 

Verses for a Guest Room 25 

The Taxi 27 

Vorticist Poem on Love 28 

On Reading "Vorticist Poem on Love" . . 28 

The Double Standard * . 29 

If the Poets Had Feared the Advertisers . 30 

The Ball Game 31 

Tipperary 36 

"Jenny Kissed Me" 40 

Dove River Anthology ...... 47 

A Rhymed Review 48 

ix 



That General Utility Rag 50 

Ode to Work 52 

Strange Cases 

The Case of Edgar Abbott and Philip 

Ridd 57 

A Consistent Girl 59 

The Case of Albert I rving Williamson . 6 1 
The Case of Domineering John Alexis 

Upham 63 

The Case of Sabrina Simpson Usch . 65 

A Parfait, Gentil Knight 67 

American Themes for a Gilbert .... 69 

Lines Written in a City Composing-Room . 71 

Alas! 72 

Lines Inspired by Trying to Imagine What 
a Magazine Art Editor Ordering a Cover 

Tells Mr. Clarence F. Underwood . . 72 

Hudson River Anthology 73 

"Chacun a Son Gout" 75 

The Softness of Sybaris 77 

The Cold Wave of 32 B.C 78 

To the Ship of State 79 

On the Indestructibility of Reading Matter 80 

To Chloe 82 

To His Lyre 83 

"PersicosOdi" 84 

Playing It Safe 85 

As the New Year (18 B. C.) Dawned . . 87 

The Good Old Days of 27 B.C. ... 88 

An Invitation to a Drinkfest .... 90 

When Q. H. F. Sang "Goodby, Girls" . . 92 

On the Ephemeralness of Beauty ... 93 

The Bard's Excuse 94 

X 



To Furlus, on Poverty 95 

Farewell to Cynthia 96 

The Nuances of Mendacity 98 

Vers Libre 99 

To a Young Man on the Platform of a Sub- 
way Express loi 

Careless Lines on Labour 102 

Halving it with Wither 103 

Ballade of a Traveller's Jinx 104 

Underneath the Bough 106 

Frequently 106 

The Flatterers 107 

To the Vers Librist Who Uses Only the 

Minor Key 107 

Eheu, Fugaces! 108 

The Bard's Annual Defiance .... 109 

The Western Journalist 1 1 1 

Ballade of Egregiousness 114 

To the Returned Girls 116 

The Boundaries of Appreciation . . . 118 

Efficiency 119 

Footlight Motifs 124 

The Italics are Richard Gifford's . . . 127 

To the Railroad Men 129 

To Myrtilla of New York 130 

Roundel 131 

Lines to a Beautiful and Busriding Lady . 132 

"Ladies, Whose Bright Eyes" . . . . 133 
Lines from a Plutocratic Poetaster to a 

Ditch-digger 134 

Villanelle, with Stevenson's Assistance . . 136 

With a Copy of Calverley 137 

Ballade of Schopenhauer's Philosophy . . 139 
xi 



WEIGHTS 
AND MEASURES 



A Penny's Worth of Poesy 

LADY, when you noted a deflection 
' In my — as a rule — attentive gaze, 
You articulated mild objection. 

Using a not unfamiliar phrase. 
Was I thinking solemn thoughts, if any? 
Were my musing integers or naughts? 
Wondered you; and offered me a penny 
For my thoughts. 



Done and done! I get a gentle joyance 

Of a calm and melancholy kind 
When I learn, in spite of your clairvoyance. 

Yours is not the power to read my mind. 
Yet, I've thought, with something of a sinking 

Feeling that is hard to put in rhyme. 
You must guess, must know what I am thinking 
All the time. 



Lady, when the moon dips like a pearly 
Barge afloat upon a silver lake; 

When the morn is manifestly early, 
I am not infrequently awake. 

When, as not infrequently, I'm lying 
Waiting for a slumber overslow, 

Whither, whither do my thoughts go flying? 
Don't you know? 

3 



Weights and Measures 

Later, when the rosy morn appearing 

Ushers in the glory of the day. 
And the thought of eggs-and-bacon nearing 

Urges me to abdicate the hay; 
Whiles that I'm apparelling and laving — 

Oh, but I am thoughtful as I dress — 
What would be my major thought while shaving? 
Can't you guess? 



Through the various daily occupations 
In which I am needfully immersed, 

Which, of all my several cerebrations. 
Always is the uppermost and first? 

And when day her weary course is ending, 
And I finish what I term my task. 

Whither, whither do my thoughts go wending? 
Can you ask? 



Lady, some may deem it far from proper, 
Say it is with Freudian meaning fraught. 

Thus to tell you, for a paltry copper. 
What is my predominating thought. 

Lady, can you bear it without shrinking? 

Did you want my "thoughts" the other night? 

I was thinking — I am always thinking 
What to write. 



The Village Munitions Co., Inc. 

FORMERLY THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH 

UNDER a spreading chestnut tree 
The smithy used to stand; 
The smith, a prosperous man is he 

As any in the land; 
For many a shell in a foreign trench 
Now bears the smithy's brand. 



His clothes are new, and fashioned well; 

His foods are rich and rare; 
His hands are nicely manicured. 

And freshly trimmed his hair. 
And he slaps the whole world in the face, 

For he is a millionaire. 



Week in, week out, from morn till night. 

And eke from night till day. 
You can see his factory fires aglow — 

(Three shifts at double pay). 
None makes more profit than the smith 

In all these U. S. A. 



And people coming home from work 

Look in at the open door. 
And say, what time they see the fires, 

And hear the bellows roar: 
"I wish I'd bought some Blacksmith Common 

When it was 24." 

5 



Weights and Measures 

Toiling — rejoicing — profiting- 

With pleasure evident, 
Each morning sees some shells begun 

For some belligerent. 
Something attempted — some one done, 

Has earned two thou, per cent. 



The No-Longer-Merry Ancient 
Monarch 

OLD King Cole was a merry old soul, 
And a merry old soul was he, 
Till he called for his pipe, and called for his bowl. 
And called for his fiddlers three. 

His pipe, that cost, in the days of old. 

But a dollar seventy-four. 
Now cost him twenty dollars in gold 

On account of the well-known war. 

His bowl — and though, in the olden time, 

When bowls were cheap and good 
At a cent apiece — now cost a dime, 

On account of the dearth of wood. 



And his fiddlers three who played so grand 

For a dollar and a half a day, 
Were known as The Ukulele Band 

In a midnight cabaret. 



Yes, Old King Cole was a merry old soul. 

And a m. o. s. was he, 
Till he called for his pipe, and called for his bowl, 

And called for his fiddlers three. 



To W. Hohenzollern: A Plea 

TIME was, my William, when I had vivacity; 
Or ever came this sanguinary strife. 
Mine was a crescent, widening capacity 
For what is not infrequently called Life. 



Time was when every afternoon fair-weathery 
I might be found, from spring to early fall, 

Observing hurlers chuck the spheroid leathery — 
In brief, I loved to watch a game of ball. 



Senescent am I now, and full of youthlessness; 

And at your Hunnish head I cast the blame: 
Since you established schrecklichkeit, or ruthless- 
ness, 

I haven't gone to see a single game. 



And since your savage, terrible portentousness 
Began to affright the celebrated world, 

I've failed to feel a fraction of momentousness 
In how or in by whom the pill is hurled. 

Sue then for peace? And let the skies be fair 
again! 
The Polo Grounds' most ardent, eager tenant 
Was I. . . . And, William, how I yearn to 
care again 
About such things as who will win the pennant! 

8 



Air: "Captain Jinks" 

I'M Captain Hans of the submarines, 
I feed the sea with human be'n's; 
I do not care about the means — 
I'm in the German navy! 



Music; and the Savage Breast 

I'D read the Kaiser's note, 

* A message representative; 
I went to bed unquieted 

And fuming and fermentative. 
Of submarine and boat, 

Of wars in endless number 
I dreamed until, while far from ill, 

I simply could not slumber. 



Of wars, I say, I dreamed. 

Of contests gladiatorial. 
When through the gray shone out the day- 

The Day they call Memorial. 
And still I lay and schemed. 

Evolving plans piratic 
A hundred million men to kill 

In diction diplomatic. 



"Alas!" I thought, "the end 

Is come of all humanity! 
The weeping earth abandons mirth 

For frenzy and insanity. 
Ah, whither does it tend? . , /* 

— And then, in martial manner, 
A German and adjacent band 

Played "The Star Spangled Banner/ 

10 



Music; and the Savage Breast 

little German band. 

Though partisan my attitude, 
When all seemed vile you made me smile — 

Accept my grinning gratitude. 
You made me understand, 

Where failed a thousand sermons. 
That all has not yet gone to pot. 

.... I thank you, band of Germans. 



The Indignant Captain of Industiy 

A GENTLEMAN I chance to know 
An interesting thing of 
Is victim of my verse, and so 
That thing I seek to sing of. 
(You surely will not censure me 
For putting into poetree 
An incident 
About the gent- 
Leman I seek to sing of.) 



He was a gentleman in trade — 

The firm was Smith & Brother. 
They traffick-ed in lace and braid. 
Or some such thing or other. 
I am not certain if they sold 
Cigars, or apple cake, or gold. 
Pray let it stand 
At laces, and 
Some such affair or other. 



"Observe a thousand girls make lace!" 

Cried Smith, in exultation. 
I saw them working in a place 
Devoid of ventilation. 
They seemed aweary, wan, and ill. 
As merely human beings will 
Appear who work 
In sunless murk 
Devoid of ventilation. 

12 



The Indignant Captain of Industry 

I saw Smith yesterday, again. 

Acerb, irate, indignant. 
"I hate," he said, "those Prussian men. 
With utter hate malignant. 
To think of using poisonous gas 
To kill an enemy! Alas! 
I cannot see 
How such men be!" 
And, my! he was malignant! 



13 



The Patriotic Merchant Prince 

I KNOW another gentleman, whose name I 
have forgotten; 
His line of merchandise was wool — or maybe it 

was cotton. 
I overheard his partner and himself at conversa- 
tion 
Regarding the emoluments of cloth adulteration. 



"Now, larger dividends accrue from mixing wool 
with shoddy; 

We have to stick 'em somehow. Ain't it done 
by everybody? 

Besides," he argued clearly as a Mannie Kant 
magician, 

"In business, you must do a lot to meet the com- 
petition." 



That night I heard him make a speech — a sturdy 

and sincere one. 
If it has ever been my pleasant privilege to hear 

one, 
Replete with ringing words it was, and this is how 

it ended: 
"The honor of the Stars and Stripes [Applause] 

must be defended." 



H 



Song: "Don't Tell Me What You 
Dreamt Last Night" 

ADfiBUTANTE was sitting in the parlour of 
her flat; 
A brave young man upon her he was calling. 
They talked about the weather and the war and 
things like that, 
As couples will, for conversation stalling. 
The talk it all went merry quite until the young 
man said: 
"Last night I dreamed that you had gone 

away " 

The debutante put up her hand and stopped the 
young man dead, 
And softly unto him these words did say: 

CHORUS 

"Don't tell me what you dreamt last night, I 

must not hear you speak! 
For it might bring a crimson blush unto my 

maiden cheek. 
If I were you, that subject is a thing that I'd 

avoid — 
Don't tell me what you dreamt last night, for 

I 've been reading Freud." 

A loving husband sat one morn at breakfast with 

his wife. 
And said to her: "Oh, Minnie, pass the cream. 
Last night I dreamed that Fritzi Scheff pursued 

me with a knife, 

15 



Weights and Measures 

And though I tried, I couldn't even scream." 
His little wife put up her hand, and said: "Oh, 
pray desist ! 
To tell the rest of it might break my heart. 
That dream, I fear, is plain to any psycho- 
analyst." 
And then she softly wept, and said, in part : 



CHORUS 

Don't tell me what you dreamt last night," etc. 



16 



The Seamy Side of Motley 

LADY, when we sat together, 
' And your flow of talk that turned 
On the Park, the Play, the Weather, 

Left me frankly unconcerned, 
I could see how hard you labour'd 

Till your brain was stiff and sore. 
Never having yet been neighbour'd 
By so dull a bore. 



Later on, from information 
Gathered elsewhere after lunch. 

You had got at my vocation. 

Learned that I belonged to Punch. 

And in tones of milk and honey 
You invited me to speak 

On the art of being funny, 

Funny once a week. 



Tis a task that haunts me waking. 
Like a vampire on the chest. 

Spoils my peace, prevents my taking 
Joyance in another's jest; 

Makes me move abroad distracted, 
Trailing speculative feet; 

Makes me wear at home a racked head 
In a dripping sheet. 

17 



Weights and Measures 

Women hint that I am blinded 

To their chaste, but obvious, charms; 

Sportsmen deem me absent-minded 
When addressed to feats of arms; 

If the sudden partridge rises 
I but rend the neighbouring air. 

And the rabbit's rude surprises 
Take me unaware. 



Life for me's no game of skittles 
As at first you might opine; 

I have lost my love of victuals 
And a pretty taste in wine; 

When at lunch your talk was wasted, 
Did you notice what occurred — 

How I left the hock untasted, 

How I passed the bird? 



So, if you would grant a favour, 

In your orisons recall 
One whose smile could scarce be graver 

If his mouth were full of gall; 
Let your lips (that shame the ruby) 
Pray for mine all wan and bleak 
With the strain of trying to be 
Funny every week. 
— Owen Seaman, in "Salvage.' 
i8 



The Seamy Side of Motley 

Lady, you have heard Sir Owen 
Seaman, editor of Punch. 

You have read how he has no en- 
Thusiastic love of lunch; 

Gone his disposition sunny, 
Vanishing his fair physique, 

With the strain of being funny, 
Funny once a week. 



Lady, if Sir Owen's ditty. 
Done in Seaman's able style. 

Earns the bard your gracious pity. 
Gains your sympathetic smile; 

If the load he labours under 
Urges you to tears; if he 

Calls your cardiac nerve, I wonder 
How you'd feel for me. 



"Once a week!" With that emotion. 

How jejunely I should jig 
To my job — mine utter notion 

Of an otium cum dig I 
Half a dozen days to wake up 

Unafraid of coming night! 
Heedless of the woes of makeup, 
And the need to write! 

19 



Weights and Measures 

Lady, I was once as others, 
I was once the Party's Life; 

Mingled freely with my brothers. 
Went to places with my wife; 

Life was radiant, life was rosy; 
Now the world is dull and drab. 

Gentle persons say : " He's prosy," 
Others: "He's a crab." 



Woes too terrible to mention 
Are an omnipresent curse; 

Some one speaks — and my attention 
Wanders to to-morrow's verse; 

When I play at mix^d doubles — 
It has happened countless times — 

All my thoughts are on the troubles 
Of to-morrow's rhymes. 



So, my lady, wheresoever. 
Whosoever you may be. 
Don't you think you might endeavour 

To devote a prayer to me? 
Let your eyes (that brown or blue be) 

Dim for me, already gray 
With the strain of trying to be 
Funny every day. 
20 



Summer Night, Riverside 

IN THE wild soft summer darkness 
How many a night we two together 
Sat in the park and watched the Hudson 
Wearing her lights like golden spangles 
Glinting on black satin! 
The rail along the curving pathway 
Was low in a happy place to let us cross, 
And down the hill a tree that dripped with bloom 
Sheltered us 

While your kisses and the flowers. 
Falling, falling, 
Tangled my hair. 

The frail white stars moved slowly over the sky. 

And npw 

Far off, far oflF, 

The tree is tremulous again with bloom. 

For June is here. 

To-night what girl 

When she goes home, 

Dreamily, before her mirror, shakes from her hair 

This year's blossoms clinging in its coils? 

— Sara Teasdale, in The Century. 

In the wild, hot summer subway 

What time I journeyed home from work, Sara, 

I read your verses. 

21 



Weights and Measures 

Free and fetterless as any barefcjot girl in Arcady, 
And I detrained at One Hundred and Sixteenth 

Street 
And walked 

One block west, to Riverside Drive. 
I sat upon a bench, avid for Adventure, 
Athirst and overyearnful for Romance; 
And a girl came along 
And I thought of the blossoms clinging in the coils 

of her hair, 
And I said, "Good evening.'* 



She said : " You fresh guys ought to be arrested 
for mashing." 



And so I sat there, senseful that Romance and 

such 
Were not for me. 

All that paid attention to me were mosquitoes; 
And I went home, 
And, dreamily before my mirror, 
I anointed myself 
With Oil of Citronella. 



22 



Voices 

O THE RE were many voices 
Vying at the feast. 
And through them I remember 
Yours — you spoke the least. 

— ^Witter Bynner in McChtre's. 



I hope that all the speakers 
That I've heard in my time 

Will get the subtle message 
Of Mr. Bynner's rhyme. 



23 



What They Ask 

ALWAYS they greet you and say, 
"And what have you been doing ?" 

They do not ask 

What you have thought, 

How you wonder, naively grave. 

In the rich silences of your soul; 

Through what white flames you have passed. 

Scathed clean, feeling your loves and your hates; 

Nor of the dreams you have dreamed. 

All purple and gold and the glory of gray cloud 



But they always ask 
What you have done 

And they know a thing or two. 

Frances. 

It's like this, Frances: 

Time was when girls and I were well acquainted 

And I would ask them: 

*'And what have you been thinking? 

Through what candescent flames have you been 

passing? 
And what — omitting their interpretation — have 
been your dreams?" 

And they would tell me. 

So now I say : 

"And what have you been doing?" 
24 



Verses for a Guest Room 

I HAVE no pomp to offer thee; 
Just my heart's hospitality — 
A little beam, but one to light 
The lodging of an anchorite. 



A slumber deep, a dreamless rest, 
To thee within this room, dear guest! 
'Tis sweet to me that thou and I 
This night beneath one roof shall lie; 
For this I deem most dear, my guest. 
In all the world, or east or west. 
Where'er thy tarrying may be. 
Blessed is the roof that shelters thee! 

— Anne Arrabin in The Century. 



No pompous couch, no trappings grand. 
Do I, a weary guest, demand. 
Your hospitality of heart 
Compels my gratitude, in part. 



In part, because I fmd the guest 
Gets hardly any dreamless rest; 
The kitchen always is below 
His room; at half-past five or so 
He hears (pretending not to mind her) 
Your Katie at the coffee-grinder; 
Again he tries to sleep, but can't 
Because the covers are too scant. 

25 



IVeigUs and Measures 

1 know it's wrong, or north or south, 

To look a gift room in the mouth; 

But if it's all the same to you, 

I'll take the 1 1 :^2. 

Don't bother, please — to take me down- 

I really must get back to town. 



26 



The Taxi 

When I go away from you 
The world beats dead 
Like a slackened drum. 
I call out for you against the jutted stars. 
And shout into the ridges of the wind. 
Streets coming fast, 
One after the other, 
Wedge you away from me, 
And the lamps of the city prick my Vyes 
So that I can no longer see your face. 
Why should I leave you, 

To wound myself against the sharp edges of the 
night? 

— Amy Lowell in The Egoist. 

When I went away from you 

The world beat dead 

Like a banjo stringless. 

Heard I you call against the stars, 

And the rest of it. 

But I had to go. 

For I read the mounting meter of the cab and it 

appalled me. 
Frightened me. 

Any meter terrifies me, if you know what I mean. 
There ought to be meterless cabs. 
Just as 
There is 
Meterless verse. 



27 



Vorticist Poem on Love 

LOVE is the great inspirer — " 
' I have read. 
The day before yesterday 
I could not write poems 
Because I did not love. 
And inarticulate. 
To-day I cannot write 
Because I am fallen out of love. 
What's the use of love, anyway? 

Archie. 



On Reading "Vorticist Poem 
on Love" 

YET many poems have been written 
Because the poet was unsmitten; 
And many a sonnet has been fashioned 
Because the bard was love-impassioned; 
And many a lyric has been lyred 
Because of loves that have expired. 



Be passion dead, unborn, or hot, 
Some people write and some do not. 



28 



The Double Standard 

IMPORTANT is the nation's health. 
1 Naught is the question of the shekel, 
111 fares the land that worships wealth!" 
Says Editorial Dr. Jekyll. 



'*Do yoa get up with paSns or cricks? 
Do you bave stitcbes in tbe side? 

BuyDr.Killman'sVit-E-Lix!" 



Says Advertising Mr. Hyde 



" Down with the greedy grafters who 
The land's escutcheon do bespeckle! 

Three cheers for the Red, White, and Blue!" 
Says Editorial Dr. Jekyll, 



"Does zero weather give you chills? 
Insomnia leave you weary-eyed? 

Buy Phakem's Phony Purple Pills!" 



Says Advertising Mr. Hyde 



"Better than gold an honest name." 
*' Be true, and let the envious heckle." 

" Be fair, whoever wins the game," 
Says Editorial Dr. Jekyll. 



Lost Energy? Ambition? Calm? 

GET DR. FIERGE'S GILDED GUIDE!" 
REMEMEMBER BIDDY BUHKEM'S BALM!" 



Says Advertising Mr. Hyde 
29 



If the Poets Had Feared the 
Advertisers 

HEAR the sledges with the bells, 
Bells fashioned of a well-known metal. 



Up from the meadows rich with a prominent kind 

of grain. 
Clear in the cool September morn. 



The clustered spires of a small Southern town 

stand. 
Green walled by the hills of a famous state 

below Mason and Dixon's line. 



When as in a certain textile fabric my Julia goes. 
Then, then, methinks how sweetly flows 
The liquefaction of her feminine apparel. 



30 



The Ball Game 

By Our Own Ruggles of Red Gap 

A YEAR come quarter-day it is that I have been 
in North America. I may be pardoned, I 
trust, if I say that in that brief period I have 
grown so accustomed to the manners and speech 
of our late colonists that I am able to endure them 
without the shocks that I experienced during my 
first fortnight in the New York city. Scores of 
strange customs, in dress and diction, which at 
first gave me a bit of a jolt, now contribute noth- 
ing to my astonishment. Inured I am to their 
eccentricities. I mean to say, I am almost 
quite a little Hepzibah to their stuff. 

After luncheon, which consisted of a thick soup, 
a fairish chop, not too rare, and a plum tart, I 
brisked down to the Daily Morning New York 
City Tribune office, for a chat with Mr. Geoifrey- 
Parsons, an oldish josser, and one of their sub- 
editors. Dressed in a goodish lounge suit of 
tweeds he was, form-fitting but necessarily large, 
and with rather an air, save for his collar, which 
he allows to remain too wide apart at the middle, 
an effect which might be eliminated by drawing 
closer the cravat. 

"Yes, Mr. Ruggles," he said. "What is the 
good word?" 

It was a fair crumpler. Good words I had, 
and in abundance, for one's vocabulary is one's 
thought-apparel; and one should be plenteously 
and variously equipped. It is a matter I have 

31 



Weights and Measures 

been sedulous about, always. I am, as one of 
their illustrated weeklies once said of me, at that 
particular point with the Noah Webster material. 

Yet all of a heap I was when Mr. Geoffrey- 
Parsons asked me for the excellent word. His 
use of the definite article fair stunned me. Had 
he said "a good word," I should have been able 
to instance him an hundred, but the limitation 
nonplussed me. However, I had learned a 
habit of theirs — to answer one of their queries 
with another. Rude it is, like returning a letter 
unopened. It would never do with us. But I 
had to pay him out. 

"Quite so, sir," I said. "How is every small 
thing?" 

I rather had him there, for he elected to close 
the parley, leaving me a winner, with the last 
word. 

" How would you like to go to the based-ball 
game," he asked me, "and do us a bit about it?" 

" I should absobeastlylutely love it, old dearo," 
I replied, resolved to see it through like a dead 
sportsman. For although I was not without 
misgiving as to my knowledge of this game, never 
having seen a based-ball court even, yet I felt it 
would be an error to confess to a lack of knowl- 
edge or skill of anything whatsoever. The North 
Americans simply do not do it. They have tre- 
mendous confidence and assurance of their power 
to put things through, and, as they phrase it, they 
generally make off with it. I mean to say, I was 

32 



The Ball Game 

bound to have a go at it and not funk my 
fences. 

Upon an air-tram I went, through what would 
have been our Bloomsbury, past their Wapping 
Old Stairs, which they call "Harlem." Beside a 
tarn, hard by a bit of a stream it was. "Polo 
Ground," they called it, and groomed and lawned 
it was in a way that would have done Wimbledon 
itself no discredit. Seats everywhere there were, 
but I was taken into the pressmen's cage, where 
the journalists were engaged in taking notes of 
the encounter, which was, I soon learned, be- 
tween the Manhattans and the Brooklyns. These 
are but boroughs of the same city, yet these 
North Americans, with that drollery of exaggera- 
tion they so frequently employ, term these 
players the National League. Uncomic it is not, 
but it would never do with us. 

As to the rules of the sport, I make no secret 
that I do not grasp them. The Manhattans, 
they tell me, trounced the Brooklyns by sixteen 
runs to three; yet the Brooklyns played nine 
innings to the Manhattans' eight. This, how- 
ever, was the only thing in which it appeared 
that the Brooklyns excelled; and even in that 
department the discrepancy was slight. 

Loud the exhortations were from the specta- 
tors. When Mr. Pfeffer, the Brooklyns* throwing 
fellow, appeared to be losing his skill, I heard all 
manner of discourteous remarks. Surely he must 
have heard some of them, for once I distinctly 

33 



Weights and Measures 

observed him, when a chap cried, "Eject him. 
He is rotting," give the navvy a jolly good 
glare. But the counsel seemed sound, for Mr. 
Pfeffer was thereafter ejected, and a Mr. Schmutz, 
a stalwart looking North American, kindly did his 
throwing for him. Friendly assistance of this 
sort is common, I believe, one man frequently 
batting for another who may feel misgivings 
about his hitting-out prowess. 

In the pressmen's cage were many young men, 
all discussing the sport. Jolly they were, though 
careless in their dress. Two only I saw who were 
vogue — Mr. Damon Runyon, who wore a blue- 
silk flowered shirt and cravat that blended, but- 
toned boots, a correct lounge suit, and a black 
bowler; and Mr. H. Bayard Swope, with an ut- 
terly decentish brown top coat. Also a Miss 
Leonard, who wore bronze slippers and brown 
spats— a bit of O. K., as the urchins say. She 
mattered enormously. 

Back to the Daily Morning New York City 
Tribune office I came, with Mr. John Hines in his 
motor I went. It was top-hole, no end, riding 
along through what would be Piccadilly, and 
along the Embankment. I reentered the sub- 
editor Parsons* room. Though it was quite 
evening, he was attired precisely as when I had 
seen him in the early afternoon! I made no 
comment, as I trust I know my place. But a 
lounge suit in the evening — it would never do 
with us. 

34 



The Ball Game 

"Shall you have any difficulty with your 
article, Mr. Ruggles?" he asked me. 

"I fancy not," I answered. "I fancy it will 
be a clay pipe snapper." 



35 



Tipperary 
I 

By Our Own James Oppenheim 

Far, far, 

The lineally-measured distance from East 
Fourteenth Street, New York, to Tipperary, 

Distant, distant the place and dreary-spent, 
drawn-out, the hours in journeying thither 

To, of my entire man-found acquaintance, the 
most desirable, the most yearning-to-be-pos- 
sessed, of women. 

Piccadilly and Leicester Square, good-bye! 

Far, far is it to Tipperary 

But my sky-soaring soul, my myriad-hearted 
heart is there. 

II 

As THE Translators Would Have Interlined 
It, If Horace Had Written It 

O thou Torquatus, the space to Tipperarium 
is (many) thousand of paces, a wide distance in 
the travelling. The space to Tipperarium is 
(many) thousand of paces toward the propinquity 
to the most sweet virgin of whom knowledge is to 
me. Farewell, O (thou) Piccadillium! Fare- 
well, O rectangle of (the consul) Lestertius! The 
space to Tipperarium is (many) thousand of 
paces, yet, moreover, my heart at that location is 
present. 

36 



Tipperary 

in 

As THE Interlinears Might Take It from 
Xenophon 

He spoke as follows: (that) it is ten parasangs 
to Tipherarikos, which is a great distance for the 
purpose of going; it is ten parasangs to Tipher- 
arikos, also, moreover, in the direction of the girl 
to me than the honey of Hymettus more sweet, 
whom I know. Fare thee well, O Pikadillos! 
And thou, O Park (Paradise) of Leichester! It 
is ten parasangs to Tipherarikos, at which place 
exist the vitals of me. 



IV 

By Our Own A. E. Housman 

A LASS in Tipperary 
Is miles and miles away. 
But oh, the cherry blossom blooms 
Above her grave to-day! 



The trip to Tipperary 

Is not for me to start; 
For oh, the cherry blossom blooms 

Above my beating heart! 

37 



Weights and Measures 

V 

By Our Own Eugene Field 

I've been on many a lengthy trip since that I was 

a boy, 
And some have filled my breast with pain and 

some my soul with joy; 
I've taken brief excursion trips and journeys 

overlong, 
And each of them I've made the theme of story 

or of song. 
I've been to California and I've been to New- 
foundland; 
I've shipped along the Danube and I've sailed the 

Rio Grande; 
But no trip I have taken yet is worthy to compare 
With that to Tipperary, for 

My 

Heart's 
Right 

There. 

I've been to Red Hoss Mountain, where the boys 
was rough and true; 

I've been to Colorado, where the summer skies is 
blue; 

To Boston, Mass., to Bangor, Maine, to Provi- 
dence, R. I., 

To Baltimore, Schenectady, Los Angeles, and 
Rye; 

38 



Tipperary 

I've been to Tallahassee, Texarkana, Jackson- 
ville; 
To Springfield, O., and Springfield, Mo., and 

Springfields, Mass. and 111., 
But, if I choose my pilgrimage, I much prefer to 

fare 
Me forth to Tipperary, for 

My 

Heart's 
Right 

There. 



The Piccadilly Ponies and the Leicester Square 

Sextette 
Are powerless to draw my eye or make my heart 

forget. 
No Persian princess on her throne, no dame of 

high degree. 
No lady in her limousine can lure my love from 

me. 
Let others by the blandishments of Broadway be 

beguiled, 
I go to Tipperary, just to see a little child. 
By-low and sleep, my prettikins, God bless your 

curly hair! 
It's far to Tipperary, but 

My 

Heart's 
Right 

There. 

39 



"Jenny Kissed Me" 

[There is Leigh Hunt's "Jenny Kissed Me," for example. Suppose he 
had made a short story of it! — Arthur Guiterman.J 

Jenny kissed me when we met. 

Jumping from the chair she sat in; 
Time, you thief, who love to get 

Sweets into your list, put that in! 
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad, 

Say that health and wealth have missed me. 
Say I'm growing old, but add 
Jenny kissed me. 

— Leigh Hunt. 

By Our Own Arnold Bennett 

WITH his right hand Edwin Clayhanger 
turned the glass knob of the front door — 
glass knobs had just been introduced in Bursley 
— opened the door, took a step over the slightly 
worn threshold, closed the door — not without 
effort, for it had warped a little, and had a habit 
of sticking at the top — and walked down the three 
white stone steps to the gate. The upper gate- 
hinge was minus a screw. It had been so for six 
months, and Edwin wondered whether he would 
speak again to Hilda about it. He speculated 
with himself; oflFered himself odds of nine to five 
that the hinge would be repaired before he re- 
turned from London. Grimly he thought of the 
advantages the layer of such a wager would have: 
the train might be wrecked and he might be 
killed, then he would not return, and technically 
he would win the bet. 

Well, suppose he were killed. What then? 
40 



*' Jenny Kissed Me" 

What had he that his meanest labourer had not? 
And his meanest labourer had the supreme advan- 
tage of latent romance, of potential adventure. 
Anything that might happen to Edwin Clay- 
hanger's meanest labourer would be an ameliora- 
tion, a splash of crimson on a drab life scheme. 
But to Edwin Clayhanger, a figure in the Five 
Towns, nothing could happen. 

But things happened in other places. It was 
conceivable, for instance, that a Liverpool man 
might be going that morning to London to con- 
sult an oculist, as Edwin was; but it was incon- 
ceivable that the Liverpool trip would not be 
crowded with zestful and romantic incident. 
For nothing really happened in the Five Towns, 
or to Five Towns people. Take the matter of 
his marriage. He had been married six years 
and he did not understand his wife. He never 
knew precisely what she would do or say. Why 
were women like that? Were they like that? 
His sister Clara was not. You could tell what 
Clara was going to do that morning; and you 
knew what she would say next quarter-day at ten 
o'clock. There were no misgivings about a 
woman like Clara. But would he like that? He 
thought, with some distaste, too, he admitted, of 
the infrequent times when Hilda had done exactly 
what she thought she would do — or what any- 
body else would have done. And he was glad 
she was not as anybody else. 

That was the trouble with him. He was ir- 

41 



Weights and Measures 

resolute. He was convinced, as he passed 
through the gate into the street, that his marriage 
was a mistake; and as he turned into the road 
leading to the station he was certain that it was 
an exciting, delightful, and interesting adventure. 
He was sorry he had left without waking Hilda; 
but she had known that he was going to London 
— and she should have awakened. She had been 
awake early enough, he thought, with growing 
irritation, the morning she and her son George 
had gone to the London oculist's. Could she 
have been awake this morning? He wondered. 
It was possible. For she had not wanted him to 
go to London, he knew; and he was going more to 
prove his right to go — because she and George 
had gone — than because he had any desire to 
visit London, or, negatively, to leave the shop for 
a whole day. 

He was ten minutes too soon. He bought a 
copy of The Pilot to read on the train. Passen- 
gers in increasing numbers gathered on the plat- 
form. Were they all going to London on some 
momentous quest? Not one of them but looked 
more important than Edwin felt that he ap- 
peared. "What contempt they would have for 
me," he thought, "if they knew I was going 
merely to ask an oculist about my sight! And 
what important missions they must have!" 

He boarded the train and sat down. He took 
The Pilot from his pocket and tried to read. 
The page seemed to blur. 
42 



''Jenny Kissed Me'* 

He thought: 

"They oughtn't to print so much stufif in solid 
six-point. It's too hard to read. They ought 
to lead it. I can't read it at all. And if I 
can't " 

But did that follow? It struck him with sud- 
den horror that he was going to London to consult 
an oculist. Perhaps type was clear and legible. 
Undoubtedly his eyes were failing. He was forty- 
two. Men had gone blind at thirty, he supposed. 
It was possible. At any rate, he would have to 
wear glasses, and what would Hilda think of that? 
She had said, he remembered, that she loved the 
look in his eyes, and while he recalled having 
looked at himself in the mirror the night she told 
him, and having found nothing unusual about his 
eyes, yet he was distinctly depressed at the pros- 
pect of lessening any of his good physical points. 
He thought of his diminished efficiency at the 
shop, in the event of blindness, but that idea 
disturbed him not nearly so much as that of the 
effect upon Hilda. By this time she would be up, 
he fancied. Would she worry that he had gone, 
as he had said last night he would do? Well, she 
might as well learn that Edwin Clayhanger was 
a man whose word, apparently lightly given, was 
as binding as any contract Fearns himself could 
have drawn. Still, he would telegraph in the 
evening. 



43 



Weights and Measures 

II 

He walked slowly from the London station into 
the crowd. Not one of them but seemed younger 
than he. 

He thought: 

"I'm forty-two. Lots of men have died at 
ages younger than that. I might die to-day and 
nobody would say, 'What a young man!'" 
Weariness of soul and limb surged over him; 
perspiration came out on his palms. 

Ill 

He ascended the stairs leading to Dr. Carping- 
ton's office. They were laid with linoleum. The 
sign on the door said " DR. ANTHONY CARP- 
INGTON, OCULIST AND OPTOMETRIST, 
ENTRANCE." He noted that he had no diffi- 
culty in deciphering the characters; printed, 
he thought, with the professional approval of the 
type expert, in 8o-point Gothic expanded. An 
oculist who knew enough to have a sign as well 
printed as that would be a man to be trusted. If 
he should tell Edwin his sight was perfect, Edwin 
would believe him; if he should condemn him 

He opened the door and entered a small waiting 
room. At a small desk was seated a young 
woman. Edwin noted her yellow hair and her 
pink and white complexion. She wore patent 
leather shoes, a green velvet skirt, and a white 

44 



"Jenny Kissed Me'' 

silk waist. She was slight, but all her clothes 
seemed just a trifle too tight. It was attractive, 
though, thought Edwin; scarcely moral. It 
would never do in the Five Towns. 

As Edwin entered, the young woman turned her 
head. She looked at Edwin for an instant, smiled : 
and, jumping from the chair she sat in, threw 
both arms about him and kissed him twice — the 
second time the kiss was of appreciable duration 
— upon the lips. 

"I'm Jenny," she cried. 



IV 

Edwin Clayhanger was riding back to Bursley 
on the noon train. "What rot!" he thought, 
with a smile. "A man of my years to worry 
about his eyes. Or anything. Twenty-four 
hours in a day! And hundreds of days in a year! 
And the indefinite number of years I have yet to 
live!" 

He hurried from the station to his house, full 
of romantic possibilities, and the savour of 
existence thrilled him throughout. 



45 



IVeights and Measures 

By Our Own Tom Daly 

Signor, I gattin' old an' gray, 
But — Rosa keess me yestiday. 



Joos' yestiday, w'en I am stan' 
Right here by my peanutta stan', 
A granda lady, beeg an' fine, 
Weeth leeps joos' like Eetalia's wine, 
Ees com' in soocha fina car 
An' ask how mooch peanuttas are. 
Her hair so black, her han' so small 
I say, "You notta pay at all." 
An' she ees joomp from off da seat. 
An' keessa me — oh, my, so sweet! 
Not like da kees from child or wife. 
But deeferent, you bat my life! 



Signor, I gattin' old an' gray. 
But — Rosa keess me yestiday! 



46 



Dove River Anthology 

By Our Own William Wordsworth 
lucy gray 

SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways 
Near Dove Springs Junction; 
A girl whom nobody ever praised, 
A maiden whose lovers were few. 
A dandelion by a mossy boulder. 
Fair as a solitary shining star. 
She lived unknown. 
Few were informed of her death. 
But it made a difference to some. 
Eh, William Wordsworth? 



47 



A Rhymed Review 

"the laughing muse" 
{By Arthur Guiterman. Harper Sr Brothers) 

AN OBVIOUS thing for one to do 
For one who runs this kind of colyum 
Is to attempt a Rhymed Review 
Of Arthur Guiterman's new volume. 



("The Laughing Muse." One Dollar, net) 
A better bargain readers could not 

In all their days of seeking get — 
Though maybe I say so that should not. 



(Observe that stanza. How it creaks 
With rhymes and verbiage extraneous! 

Friend Arthur would have worked for weeks 
To make that stanza seem spontaneous.) 



For him no fault of limping line. 
No flaws in joining or connection; 

I rate his verse ahead of mine. 
Which is to hail it as perfection. 



If you don't know his lyric stuff, 
I beg of you to blow a dollar; 

To you who know I've said enough- 
I needn't emphasize my holler. 

48 



A Rhymed Review 

P. S, The book is large and fine. 

("The Laughing Muse," by Arthur Guiter- 
man) and contains that deathless line, 

" I hope to God a lion bit her." 



49 



That General Utility Rag 

By Our Own Irving Berlin 

I LIKE to hear — yes, yes! — I like to hear 
The music of a big brass band. 

I love the tone 

Of the slide trombone [Bus. of slide trombone] 

And the saxophone [Bus. of saxophone] 

So grand. 

But I want to be 

General utility — 

I want to try 

That baby-cry [Bus. of haby-cry]; 

Want to play the rattle [Bus. of rattle] and the 
Castanet [Bus. of castanet]; 

Want to bang the tom-tom [Bus. of tom-tom] and 
the tambourette [Bus. of tambour ette]; 

Want to jangle 

That old triangle [Bus. of triangle]] 

Cut a caper 

With the old sandpaper [Bus. of sandpaper]; 

Ring those sleighbells [Bus. of sleighbells] and 
those chimes [Bus. of chimes] 

And crack that whip [Bus. of whip] about a mil- 
lion times. 

I want to beat that thunder-sheet [Bus. of thun- 
der-sheet] 

I like the smash of the old glass-crash [Bus. of 
glass-crash] 

I want to go on — yes, go on — 

I want to go on — yes, go on — 

I want to go on a musical jag! 

50 



That General Utility Rag 

1 want to have a symphonical souse 

Like a syncopated [Bus. of syncope] Richard 

Strauss. 
I want to play — hooray! — 
All day — hooray! — 
With facility 
And agility 
That General Utility 
Ra-a-a-g! 



51 



Ode to Work 

AFTER CALVERLEY'S " ODE TO TOBACCO 

THOU, who when joys appear 
Bidst them begone, and mere 
Pleasure, dehght, or cheer. 

Scorning regardest; 
Hard, when the morn is gray; 
Hard, when they've cleared away 
Lunch; and at close of day 
Possibly hardest: 



I have a hatred old 

For thee, though manifold 

Stories, I know, are told. 

All to thy credit; 
How they who love to slave. 
Avid of work, and brave. 
Fill a not early grave, 

(Gosh! how I dread it!) 



How they who love to shirk 
Duties that chafe and irk. 
Loathing all kinds of work. 

Reft of ambitions, 
Urgeless and uninspired, 
Sodden and dull and tired. 
Ultimately get fired — 

Lose their positions. 

.52 



Ode to Work 

Often a friend when he 
Greets me will say to me: 
*'0h, how you gleefully 

Jingle and jest it!" 
Friend, if you care for my 
Shameless expression, why. 
Let me be honest : I 

Simply detest it. 



Work, I have heard it claimed. 
Makes one beloved and famed; 
Haply I shall be blamed 

Now if I slack it. 
Blame me, then ... 1 don't care 
One little tinker's swear. 
Me for the open air — 

Give me my racquet! 



53 



STRANGE CASES 



The Case of Edgar Abbott and 
Philip Rldd 

THERE was Edgar Alvin Abbott, who had. 
never learned to swim; 
All the science of natation was unconnable to him. 
All his efforts went for nothing, and his comrades' 

japes and jeers 
Were his portion every summer of his forty-seven 
years. 



Patiently he bore the mockeries of the swimmers 
on the beach. 

But the useful art of swimming ever stayed be- 
yond his reach; 

And whenever one would ask him, with a wish to 
scoff and mock, 

"Do you swim?" he'd always answer, "Sure, I 
swim just like a rock." 



Philip Albert Aloysius Ebenezer Cabot Ridd 
Started out to be a swimmer when he was a little 

kid— 
("Kid" is not a word I worship, but the lapse is 

rather slight. 
If such usages offend you, do not read the things I 

write) . 

57 



IVeights and Measures 

Philip Ridd could do the paddle and the trudgeon 

and the crawl; 
He could float and do a jacknife — he was master 

of them all. 
He had strength, he had endurance, he had speed- 

iness of stroke; 
And he always thought of Edgar Alvin Abbott as 

a joke. 



Once, as Philip Ridd and Edgar Abbott stood upon 
the shore. 

They observed a maiden swimming out a hundred 
yards or more; 

And they saw the waves were angry and in- 
ordinately high, 

And they saw the maiden struggle, and they 
heard the maiden cry. 



Braver hearts than Philip Ridd's and Edgar 

Abbott's might have quailed; 
Braver souls than Phil's or Eddie's in that crisis 

might have failed. 
"Save me! Save me!" cried the maiden, and our 

hero Philip Ridd, 
Leaping bravely to her rescue, cried: "I'll save 

you!" And he did. 

58 



A Consistent Girl 

MISS Dorothea Birmingham Irene Amanda 
Jones 
Was one to tell about her plans in no uncertain 

tones. , ^ , , .If 

She never staked a nickel on the fickle wheel of 

chance, 

But reckoned all her sayings and her doings in 

advance. 



In January Dorothea knew that in July 

She'd go to such-and-such a place, with whom 

she'd go, and why; 
She knew what minute she would rise and when 

she'd go to bed. 
And what she'd have for dinner six or seven years 

ahead. 



No purposes or plans so firm as were Miss 

Dorothea's. 
Her parents used to say to her: "Oh, Dot, you 

have ideas!" 
But argument of any sort would never alter Dot, 
Or budge her one scintilla, bit, iota, tittle, jot. 



Among the plans immutable that filled her pretty 

head 
Was that concerning whom she would and whom 

she wouldn't wed; 

59 



IVeights and Measures 

Her future mate must be a man of uttermost per- 
fection, 

Whose character and pedigree would bear minute 
inspection. 

"The man that I select," she'd say, "the husband 

of my choice. 
Must have a giant stature and a sweet, sonorous 

voice; 
A noble heart, a mammoth mind, a mass of curly 

hair, 
A pretty wit — and also he must be a millionaire." 

Now Padonaram Perkins was the silliest of 

plumbers; 
His weak and astigmatic eyes had squinted sixty 

summers; 
The chill of sixty winters used to creak and crack 

his bones; 
But once he met upon the street Miss Dorothea 

Jones. 

"O lady," Padonaram cried, "whoever you may 

be, 
I'm asking you, right here and now, if you will 

marry me. 
O lady, will you marry me? 1 beg, beseech and 

hope!" 
And, Dorothea, queenly and consistent, answered 

"Nope." 

60 



The Case of Albert Irving 
Williamson 

NOW, Albert Irving Williamson was innocent 
and young; 
Nor evil thought was in his mind, nor word upon 

his tongue. 
He drank no alcoholic brews, he smoked no nico- 
tine; 
He was about as good a youth as I have ever seen. 

But alcohol and nicotine, injurious though 
they be. 

Are utterly irrelevant to Albert's historee. 

Still, if I choose to mention things that are irrele- 
vant. 

Pray, who are you to censure me or tell me that I 
can't? 



He was, I say, a blameless youth who shunned 

the sinful deeps; 
He never played at marbles with the other boys 

for keeps; 
He never played a gambling game of any kind or 

sort — 
Young Albert Irving Williamson was not at all a 

sport. 

Now Albert chanced to ride upon a Pullman 

palace smoker 
Whose occupants, a rough and vulgar crowd, were 

playing poker. 

6i 



JV eights and Measures 

"Ah, ha!" then whispered one of them as Albert 

came in sight, 
"Leave us go after this here boob and trim the 

sucker right." 

(I do not hold with talk like that, but it is not this 
bard's. 

It is the verbiage used by such as like to play at 
cards.) 

"Oh, please to play a bit with us," up spake those 
gambling men, 

"Sit in with us till Utica — we're due at seven- 
ten." 

So Albert Irving Williamson, who knew no single 

rule 
Of poker, played with men who thought that 

Albert was a fool — 
Our Albert Irving Williamson, to whose untutored 

mind 
The nine of straights was just as good as seven of 

a kind. 



Oh, pride it is a parlous thing, and comes before a 

fall! 
The gamblers went for Albert's roll until they got 

it all. 
In spite of Albert's ignorance, of which there was a 

lot, 
Our hero did not win a single solitary pot. 
62 



The Case of Domineering John 
Alexis Upham 

WHEN John Alexis Upham was a h'ttle lad of 
two, 
He made his nurse do everything he wanted her 

to do; 
A domineering darling, an imperious little lad. 
His parents thought him lordly, but the neigh- 
bours called him bad. 



He ruled the other boys at school; in classroom 
and at play 

Our John Alexis Upham always had to have his 
way. 

At college (on the campus they discuss his man- 
ners still), 

Nor student nor professor ever dared to cross his 
will. 



As energetic business man he took a stubborn 

stand, 
And not a clerk or merchant prince would counter 

his command. 
Resistance to his orders never came from any 

one; 
Did he say "Go and do it thus," why, thus 'twas 

always done. 

63 



Weights and Measures 

But John Alexis fell in love — such incidents 

occur — 
And everybody said, "Poor Nell! Alas, I pity 

her!" 
A modest, unassuming maid, and so distinctly shy 
That if you said a word to her she'd look at you 

and cry. 



They married — John Alexis, who had always had 

his way — 
And Nell, who never, never, never had a word to 

say; 
And in their long connubial life — on thirty years 

it borders — 
She always did, she always does exactly as he 

orders. 



64 



The Case of Sabrina Simpson Usch 

I'M about to tell the story of Sabrina Simpson 
Usch, 
Hearing which the strictest infant wouldn't even 

have to blush; 
For I always make my stories just as moral as I 

can — 
If you must have Mr. Chambers, read The 
Cosmopolitan. 



All her life Sabrina Simpson (she is only twenty- 
one) 

Had been sheltered from the figurative rain and 
frost and sun. 

As a student she was slothful, and her intellect 
was small. 

Why, the veriest freshman used to say she had no 
bean at all. 



Well, Sabrina married Edgar Allen Kuppen- 

berger Usch; 
He was invalid and wealthy, and was cut down in 

the flush; 
And he left his bride, uncalloused to the bludgeon- 

ings of Fate, 
Seven hundred thousand dollars and a lot of real 

estate. 

65 



Weights and Measures 

Then the gossips got together and they said she 
had no chance — 

She without the slightest grasp of any problem of 
finance! 

What would happen to that money if Sabrina had 
her way. 

Those who knew her lack of reason did not hesi- 
tate to say. 



When Sabrina heard the prodigal provisions of the 
will, 

She had something of a tremour, which was fol- 
lowed by a chill, 

And she said, " For me to worry is a curious thing 
and new. 

But I haven't any business sense, and don't know 
what to do." 



So she spent the splendid fortune and she sold 
the real estate. 

And she hasn't seven dollars at the sadly present 
date. 

Poor Sabrina, unendowed with any great intel- 
ligence! 

Poor Sabrina, who they said had not a bit of 
business sense! 



^ 



A Parfit, Gentil Knight 

YESTEREVENING'S shades descending 
On — you've guessed it — yesterday 
Found me, as the bard says, wending 
Home my way. 

In the subway, squeezed and tightsome, 

(This is not to be a rhyme 
Of the subway. That I'll write some 
Other time.) 

In the subway (O my brothers, 
What a subject for a pome!) 
I was — with a lot of others — 
Going home. 

And a lady stood beside me 

Fair as any I have seen. 
She was — yes, whate'er betide me! — 
Quelque queen. 

Fair as lady ever sought of 

Knight of a forgotten year. 
(I immediately thought of 
Guinevere.) 

Fain for her would I demand some 

Boon . . . And underneath her strap 
Sat a knightly and a handsome- 
Looking chap. 

67 



Weights and Measures 

Sturdy, brave, and true — the kind of 

Man who'd fight, and falter not. 
(Straightway he put me in mind of 
Launcelot.) 



"Now," methought (my thoughts are tender 

And as maple sugar sweet), 
*'To the lady he'll surrender 
Up his seat." 

But he read along unheeding. 
Giving Guinevere no look; 
And he kept intently reading 
In his book. 



And I looked, the title-page of 
That there volume for to see. 

It was Bulfmch's *'The Age of 
Chivalry." 



68 



American Themes for a Gilbert 

OIR WILLIAM GILBERT, master of the 

"^ lightsome and the lyrical. 

Employed a sharply pointed pen and eke a style 

satirical; 
A pen and style that here and now are absolutely 

needed — 
Alas! that no one lives to write the kind of things 

that he did! 



"Yet should a Gilbert rise again, with such a gift 
for gayety, 

For academic merriment applauded by the laity, 

Where are the targets now for his satirical con- 
fetti? 

What themes," you ask, "are worthy of Gilber- 
tian libretti?" 



"What could he fmd to write of in these U. S. of 

Ameriky? 
What is there for a pen so sharply, subtly esoter- 

icky?" 
Alas! there are a thousand themes, you undis- 

cerning filbert, 
To furnish inspiration to a man like William 

Gilbert! 

69 



Weights and Measures 

An opera, say, replete with quip and crank and 
quirk and quiddity 

On presidential calmness and Woodrovian placid- 
ity; 

On Secretary Daniels and the varied consequences 

Attendant on the dearth of ships and similar 
defences. 



On Taste in Music, Letters, Art; on War, and on 

Neutrality; 
On men and women, rich and poor, in this and 

that locality; 
And then — this is the Big Idea, and I shall now 

unloose it — 
An opera on the Task of Finding Some One to 

Produce It. 



70 



Lines Written in a City Composing- 
Room 

WHEN Thomas Gray, the famous bard. 
Wrote that which made him noted. 
He worked egregiously hard 

On lines that might be quoted. 
For seven years, through woes and ills. 
His Muse was exercising; 
But 
Who paid the meat and grocery bills 
While Gray was elegizing? 

"No slipshod verses shall be mine,'* 

He'd tell the impatient printer. 
" I'll write it out upon this line 

If it consumes all winter!" 
And so he wooed the elusive Muse 

With zeal uncompromising— 
But 
Who kept the little Grays In shoes 

While Gray was elegizing? 

We modern minnesingers waste 

No time, no midnight taper; 
Our lines are done in fevered haste 

To catch the waiting paper. 
We rush the rhymes we write to-day 

Our guerdon overprizing— 
Still— 
Who paid the rent for Mrs. Gray 

While Gray was elegizing? 

71 



Alas! 

T CANNOT write the old jokes, 
* The cranks and wanton wiles. 
Because I can't remember 'em, 
And I haven't got the files. 



LINES INSPIRED BY TRYING TO IMAGINE WHAT 

A MAGAZINE ART EDITOR ORDERING A COVER 

TELLS MR. CLARENCE F. UNDERWOOD 



PICTURE the lady's stocking; 
Be sure you don't forget 
The dear little dimpled darling 
Displaying her toes et cet. 



72 



Hudson River Anthology 

BENJAMIN J. WHOOZISS 

I RAN a store; 

^ I underpaid my help 

And lied about the goods I sold; 

Lied in advertisements in the newspapers. 

Then the war came. 

It hurt my business, 

And so the things the papers said 

Hurt my investments. 

True things they were, those journalistic utter- 
ances, 

And bravely said. 

But I wrote solemn letters to the papers. 

Signing various names; 

"All I want is Fair Play," they said. 

O. Henry could have made a yarn of that, I 
think. 

JANITOR CARL CARLSEN 

I WAS a petty grafter 
But given so to whining 
The tenants in the apartment house 
All pitied me a lot. 
An inefficient janitor 
Entitled "superintendent"; 
I was a shadow boxer. 
And the landlord thought I worked. 
Commissions from the butcher, 
Commissions from the newsman, 
Commissions from the grocer, 

73 



Weights and Measures 

Amounted up, in a year. 
One day, in greed for grafting, 
I tried to make the milkman 
Give me a larger percentage — 
He tried to shoot me dead. 
The bullet grazed my shoulder- 
The milkman was convicted. 
He's serving thirty years. 



74 



M 



"Chacun a Son Gout" 

AD MAECENATEM 
Horace: Book I, Ode 1 

"Maecenas aiavis, ediie regihus." 

AECENAS of the bluest blood, 
My guard revered, my glory noble. 
One man acquires Olympic mud 

Upon his racing automob'le, 
And winning of an earthly prize 
Exalts him to the well-known skies. 



Another fmds applause is sweet — 
The praise of Rome, as loud as fickle; 

Another takes his joy in wheat, 
In watching it from seed to sickle; 

And in his granary he stores 

Sweepings from Libyan threshing-floors. 



The man who loves to plough the field 
Has no desire to plough the ocean; 

His farm delights he will not yield 
To sailor joys. Perish the notion! 

The trader trembles at the gale, 

Yet, once on land, longs to set sail. 

75 



Weights and Measures 

One there may be that doth recline 
Flushing his arid pipe thoracic 

With beakers — ay, with bowls! — of wine; 
The brand? The best domestic Massic. 

Recline, as 1 began to say, 

Beneath a tree for half a day. 



Some love the wars that mothers fear, 
The toot of trump, the blare of bugle; 

Some like to hunt the boar or deer, 
Unmindful of the ties con/wgal. 

For me nor hunts nor war's alarms; 

For me nor motorcars nor farms. 



Ivy for me! The grove for mine! 

Where nymphs and satyrs hold high revel. 
Where I can join the gods divine, 

A bit above the lowbrow level. 
And if you say: "Some bard, this guy!" 
My soaring head shall touch the sky. 



76 



The Softness of Sybaris 

AD LYDIAM 
Horaco: Book I, Ode 9 

" Lydia, die, per omnes — " 

LYDIA, by the gods above, 
Tell me why you aim your love 
At a lad whose life was centred 
In the tournaments he entered. 



Now he never rides a horse; 
Never goes around the course. 
Never swims the Tiber River — 
At athletics he's a flivver. 



Once the discus he would throw; 

Quoits he played; and, long ago, 

Cobb was not a better batter. 

. . . Tell me, Lydia, what's the matter? 



77 



The Cold Wave of 32 B.C. 

AD THALIARCHUM 
Horace: Book I, Ode 9 

"yides, ut alta stet nive candidum*' — 

It is cold, O Thaliarchus, and Soracte's crest is 

white; 
There is skating on the Tiber; there is No Relief 

in Sight. 
Tell the janitor the radiator's absolutely cold. . . 
Let us crack a quart of Sabine; I've a case of 

four-year old. 

Here's to Folly, Thaliarchus! Here is " Banzai 1", 
"Pros't!", and^How!" 

We should fret about the future! We should cor- 
rugate the brow! 

Any joy is so much velvet; Age impinges soon 
enough. 

Why resolve to can the frivol? Why decide to 
chop the fluff? 

On the well-known Campus Martins, as the 

! shade of night descends, 

There are ladies castlewalking with their unpla- 

^ tonic friends; 

Many a sweetly smiling damsel — need I fill up 

further space? 
Hurry, O my Thaliarchus, let us go that to there 

place. 

78 



To the Ship of State 

AD REMPUBLICAM 
Horace: Book I, Ode 14 

*'0 navis, referent in mare te novi — " 

DEWARE, O bark, the waves that wish to 

*-^ tear thee from these shores; 

And bravely seek the harbor, for thy sides are 

reft of oars; 
See how thy broken mast and yards are groaning 

in the gale! 
Unsound, alas! thy ropeless hull! Unsafe thy 

shredded sail! 



Thou hast no gods to call upon when Sable Care 

is thine; 
The sailor trusts no showy sterns, though built of 

Pontic pine. 
O ship that wert my woe, that art my love, avoid 

the seas 
And shun the treacherous waters of the shining 

Cyclades. 



k 



79 



On the Indestructibility of Reading 
Matter 

(To Carolyn Wells) 
Horace: Book I, Ode 22 

"Integer vitae, scelerisqiie purus — " 

A LAD whose life is pure and clean — 
His stuff is cosmic, sempiternal; 
Whether in Harper's Magazine 
Or in the so-called Evening Journal. 



He needs no 24-point blurb. 

His verse requires no Gothic lo-point, 
For folks to say, "Believe me. Herb, 

Some ooze comes off of that guy's pen point!' 



I wrote some poetry at home — 

I lived, you know, at Sabine Junction — 

A wolf came up and glimpsed my pome, 
And slammed the door with vulpine unction. 



A big, big, big, big wolf was he: 
(And if you crave corroboration. 

Look up Ode 22 and see 
The difficulties of translation.) 
80 



On the Indestructibility of Reading Matter 

Lived I where Kipling pens his rhymes, 
Or where Le Gallienne pens his stanzas; 

And worked I for the London Times, 
Or for a sheet in Howell, Kansas — 



Oh, ship me to some desert isle 

Or leave me in my Conning Tower, 

Still shall I sing my Carrie's smile 
And love its cardiac motive power. 



8i 



To Chloe 

I 

Horace: Book I, Ode 23 

" yUas hinnuko me similis, Chloe — " 

CHLOE, regard my song sententious 
And trust me as your soul's director: 
No longer be a conscientious 
Objector. 

No lion, I, to feast upon 

You, Chloe. Do not be so distant. 
Forget your mother. Be a non- 
Resistant. 



II 

pEAR me not, my Chloe, like a fawn that 
* seeks its mother. 

Frightened of the forest, overfearful of the 
trees, 
Tremulous with terror it is difficult to smother, 
Quivering at the rustle of the brier in the 
breeze. 

Never mine the cruel wish to crush you like a lion, 

Never mine the wish to be a tiger in a rage. 

Cut away from mother! Give your bridal-gown 

a try on! 

Votes for women, Chloe! And remember, 

you're of age. 

82 



To His Lyre 



AD LYRAM 
Horace: Book I, Ode 32 

Poscimur. Si qiiid vacui sub umhra — " 

IF EVER, as I struck thy strings, 
A I've sounded one enduring note, 
Let me, O Lyre, think up some things 
That folks will simply have to quote. 



A Lesbian lyrist owned thee once; 

He used to sing a lot, he did. 
Of dames and demijohns and stunts 

Like that. He was the Tuneful Kid. 



Help me, mine ancient ukulele. 
Sing songs of sorrow and of joy. 

Such as, composed and printed daily. 
Will make the public yell, "Oh, boy V 



83 



"Persicos Odi" 
I 

Horace: Book I, Ode 38 

" Persicos odi, puer apj)aratus — " 

OH, BOY ! — to quote a slangy line — 
This war-stock thing is wrong. 
No Persian Copper shares for mine — 
They cramp a poet's song. 



The market I shall never dent 
With International Tree. 

I'll take my little four per cent. — 
The savings bank for me. 



II 

FOR me no high-powered touring car, no lac- 
quered limousine; 
No Persian carburetor, and no perfumed gasolene; 
As my chauffeur I know you hate unneceessary 

fuss — 
A little flivver runabout is good enough for us. 



84 



Playing It Safe 

AD LICINIUM 
Horace: Book II, Ode 10 

"Rectius vives, Licini, neque altum — *' 

SAIL not too far to be safe, O Liclnius! 
Neither too close to the shore should you 
steer 
Rashness is foolish, and how ignominious 
Cowardly fear! 



He who possesses nor palace nor hovel 

(My little flat would be half way between) 

Hasn't a house at which paupers must grovel 

Yet it is clean. 



Shaken by winds is the pine that is tallest; 

Ever the summit is bared to the flash; 
The bigger thou art, so the harder thou fallest- 
Cracketty crash! 



He who in famine can hope for the manna, 
He who in plenty fears poverty's chafe- 
He is the proper, the true Pollyanna, 
Playing it safe. 

85 



Wxights and Measures 

Jupiter, bringing the bleak, bitter, raw gust 

Also remembers to take it away; 
He is the god of December . . . but August — 
April . . . but May 



When you have creditors suing to pay them 

Four-to-an-ace is the way to invest ; 
But when you win every pot, you should play 
them 

Close to your chest. 



86 



As the New Year [i8 B.C.] Dawned 

AD POSTUMUM 
Horace: Book II, Ode 14 

" Eheu ! Jugaces, Postume, Fostume — " 

OPOSTUMUS, alas! I hear the bells go 
tinkle-tinkle! 
Zip! goes another flitting year! here comes an- 
other wrinkle! 
And though I hate to hang the crape — no skill 

and no endurance 
Can keep your folks from putting in a claim for 
your insurance. 

If daily you endow a school and forty-two 
Foundations 

Would that put off a single day your last disinte- 
grations? 

No! What though you be prince or prune, a 
slacker or a hero. 

The sum of all your wealth and woes is ultimately 
zero. 

Some day you'll bid your wife good-bye, and— 

this no prognosis — 
That afternoon they'll say it was arterio-sclerosis; 
And in a year, or maybe less, a man of greater 

merit 
Shall spill upon your marble floors the wine he will 

inherit. 

87 



The Good Old Days of 27 B.C. 

AD ROMANOS 
Horace: Book III, Ode 6 

*'Delicta maiorum hnmeritas lues — " 

FOR sins ancestral, O thou guiltless Roman, 
thou shalt suffer 
Till thou restore the temples that are crum- 
bling, and the shrines; 
The statues that are smoky go and polish with a 
buffer! 
Go scour the sooty sculpture till it shines! 



It is by service to the gods alone that thou 
prevailest; 
With them beginneth everything; to them en- 
trust the end! 
Observe what woes to Italy, once the heartiest 
and the halest. 
The gods have sent — continue still to send. 



Monaeses and the Pacoran have beaten us in 
battle- 
To them the spoil of Rome upon their neck- 
laces is sweet — 
And worried now with politics and civil tittle- 
tattle, 
We fear the foreign soldiery and fleet. 
88 



The Good Old Days of 27 B,C, 

Our times are overt roublous; there are scandals 
and divorces; 
We tremble for the children and we fret about 
the Home; 
The River of Disaster, overflowing from these 
sources, 
Is threatening the government of Rome. 

The Roman flapper joys in doing wild, Hellenic 
dances. 
She calsomines her features and she rouges up 
her lips; 
The married woman yearns for unconnubial 
romances — 
She's naughty to her tender fmger-tips. 

Not such the sires of Roman youth, who rising 
in their glory. 
Put Hannibal, Antiochus, and Pyrrhus off the 
map. 
Gone are the peasant warriors and their brave, 
bucolic story! 
Return again, O simple Sabine yap! 

O Time, is naught secure from thy malign disinte- 
gration? 
Our parents* days our grandsires and our 
granddams used to curse. 
Compare us with our parents — ponder our de- 
generation ! 
And gosh! our kids are getting even worse! 
89 



An Invitation to a Drinkfest 

AD TELEPHUM 
Horacet Book III, Ode 19 

"Quantum distet ab Inacho — '* 

YOU tell when Inachus was born; 
You say when Codrus was a boy; 
Of /Eacus you sing, nor scorn 
To tell about the wars of Troy. 

But what's the cost of Chian wine? 

Who'll heat the water for my dip? 
Under whose roof do I recline? 

When shall I lose this case of grippe? 

A drink! Three cyathi (or nine)! 

Hurry, my boy, and bring it soon! 
We'll toast (I like the following line) 

Murena, midnight, and the moon. 

To revel now is my desire; 

I'll take my joyance in a jag. 
Why mute the pipe and hush the lyre? 

Come, play that Berecyntian Rag! 

I hate the hands that hang the crape! 

For me the souls that hang expense! 
Fling flowers around! Uncork the grape, 

And laugh at Lycus's laments! 
90 



An Invitation to a Drinkfesi 

To you the radiant Rhode turns; 

(Your hair has witched that lovely gell) 
My lingering love for Glycera burns — 

My Glycera . . . You know me, Tel. 



91 



When Q. H. F. Sang "Good by. 
Girls" 

AD VENEREM 
Horace: Book III, Ode 26 

" f^ixi puellis nuper idoneus — " 

1USED to be one who was frantic for fun; 
Than I there was no one insaner. 
I used to be keen for a call on a queen. . . 
A hardy campaigner. 



No more shall I fall! I shall hang on this wall 

My lute and my weapons of warfare; 

To Venus I bow as these offerings I vow. 

Is anything more fair? 



O goddess, one favour I seek as I pray — 

No boon ostentatious or showy — 
Just once, for my sake, O I beg of thee, take 
A wallop at Chloe. 



92 



On the Ephemeralness of Beauty 

Horac«t Book IV, Od* 10 

'0 crtidelis adbuc et Veneris muneribus potens — " 

r\ CRUEL thou, while yet the best 
^^ Is thine of Beauty's fair bequest. 
When that thy pride shall have a fall. 
Thy locks decrease to none at all; 
When pale hath grown thy rosy cheek. 
And dull become thy glance, and weak — 
Whene'er thou gazest in the glass. 
Then shalt thou, sighing, say: "Alas! 
Why, when my heart was young and gay 
Lacked I the wisdom of to-day? 
Or, now that faltering is my step. 
Why have I lost my pristine pep?" 



93 



The Bard's Excuse 

AD MAECENATEM 
Horac«< Epode XIV 

''Mollis inertia cur tantam difuderit imis — " 

MAECENAS, you wonder what spell I am 
under 
And why I continue to stall; 
You cannot help thinking that I have been 
drinking — 

I haven't at all. 



My verses are thinnish? I simply can't fmish 

The creaking iambics 1 start . . . 
The god's interference has caused my arrear- 
ance — 

(The god of the heart.) 



Bathyllus of Samos excited the famous 

Anacreon, maker of rhymes; 
Why, you took a trip in your car with a pippin 
A couple of times. 



And so my cessation from versification. 

For Phyrne's the girl I adore. 
(In which I have plenty of company — ^twenty 
Or twenty-one more). 

94 



To Furlus, on Poverty 

CatuUust Oda 23 

" Fur if quoi neque serous est, neque area — " 

FINANCIAL troubles irk thee not; 
No servants test thy strong endurance; 
No germs infest thy simple cot; 
Thou hast no need for fire insurance. 



How happy, Furius, is thy life 
Shared with thine estimable Popper 

And his — excuse me — wooden wife! 

(I think those birds could lunch on copper!) 



In utter health how happy thou, 
Fearing nor fire nor indigestion! 

No fall in stocks can blanch thy brow 
Serene beyond all doubt or question. 



Hay fever, rheumatiz, the grip, 
Malaria, gout, and such diseases 

Elude thy frugal guardianship — 
Both when it's hot and when it freezes. 



Cease then to pray the gods for wealth 
Not worth the pains to have amassed it! 

I wonder if, with naught but health 
Thou knowest just how soft thou hast it? 

95 



Farewell to Cynthia 

PropMTtlusi Book I, El«cy 8 

''Tune igituT demens, nee tea me cura moratur?' 

ARE you bewitched? Or don't you care 
To stay where I may linger near ye? 
Am I less welcome than the air 
Of chill Illyria? 



O Cynthia, are you then so keen 

For him* that you prefer the slow life 
Of shipboard? (*You know whom I mean — 
The lying lowlife!) 



Can you endure the wintry snows. 

The ship's hard couch, and kindred trouble? 
I'd like to have each storm that blows 
In fury double! 



For then you'd have to stay, my pet; 

No ship could loose the straining tether. 
Yet — if you go, I hope you'll get 
Some dreadful weather. 



I shall be standing at the pier. 

The gentle author of these verses. 
Shaking my fists at you, my dear. 
And cussing curses. 

96 



Farewell to Cynthia 

Yet, most perfidious, most untrue. 

You coyest of this flirty, coy age, 
I hope you'll have — I truly do — 
A lovely voyage. 



And I shall ask of every tar 

Where any one has seen or met you; 
North, East — I don't care where you are — 
Some day I'll get you! 



97 



The Nuances of Mendacity 

NO MASTER in mendaciousness, no keen 
deceiver I; 
I never know when any one is telling me a lie; 
The clumsiest of untruthful men I never can 

suspect, 
And flaws in simple honesty are things I don't 
detect. 



When someone says: "I'll pay it back in just a 

day or two." 
I never get the notion it's a thing he will not do; 
And when a reader tells me she is Mad about My 

Stuff, 
I take her word as gospel, never knowing it is guff. 



But though I may be credulous and easy and 

unwise, 
I know the utterest untruth, the leader of the lies; 
I know a man is lying, when, considerably cut. 
He says: "I like a joke as well as anybody, 

but " 



98 



Vers Libre 

DRINK to me with thine eyes, exclusively, 
And I will pledge with mine; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup. 
And I shall not order any wines or liquors. 
Soul-thirst 

Demands divine drink; 
Yet, even to Jovian nectar, 
I prefer thine. 



Recently I sent thee a wreath, a wreath of roses. 

Not honouring thee, particularly — 

Rather giving it a hope of 

Immortality. 

But thou merely breathedst on it 

And returnedst it to me. 

Since when it grows, and is redolent, I swear. 

Not of itself. . . . 

Nay! Its fragrance is of thee. 



John Spratt detested carbohydrates. 
The deglutition of proteins, to his wife. 
Was intolerable. 
Wherefore, cooperating. 
There was no waste 
Of provender. 

« * * « 
99 



Weights and Measures 

Twinkle, starlet. 

Loftily, supramundanely, diamondly. 



Little Miss Muffet sat in a corner, 

Absorbing casein — 

A food of great nutritive power. 

Rich in butter fats. 

A spider — an arachnid of the species 

Araneidae — came along; 

Ugly, motive, horrendous, 

Terrorizing her to the point of departure. 



100 



To a Young Man on the Platform 
of a Subway Express 

BLITHE, whistling lad who yesterevening 
stood 
Behind me on the Broadway subway's plat- 
form. 
Your disposition may be bad or good. 
Your will to pleasure may take this or that 
form. 
You whistled, I believe, "Poor Butterfly," 
(I've heard the tune, and once you seemed to 
strike it) 
Pray be not angry when I say that I 
Don't like it. 



I do not mind your piping off the key — 
I sometimes err myself in that direction — 

But when you whistle right in back of me, 
I claim the right to offer mild objection : 

Whistle whate'er you will, sans let or check, 
To those who nightly pay the Shontsian nickels. 

But do it elsewhere, please, than down my neck. 
. . . It tickles. 



lOI 



Careless Lines on Labour 
1 

OYE that lie on the sandy beach. 
With nothing whatever to do, 
Beyond the beckoning, grasping reach 
Of the city and all its crew — 



II 



There are pleasanter things in summertime 
Than to coax the bashful laugh. 

Than to build the lofty and careful rhyme. 
And to prune a paragraph. 



Ill 

There are pleasanter things to do at night 

Alluringer things by day. 
Than to seek a subject on which to write 

A merrily mirthsome lay. 



And so when it squeaks as I strike the strings, 

And I long to be labour-free, 
I just go and do those pleasanter things 

I spoke of in II and III. 



1 02 



Halving It With Wither 

IF SHE be not fair to me, 
What care I how fair she be? 
Still, if she be fair, why then 
That is something else again. 



103 



Ballade of a Traveller's Jinx 

OVER the country, from coast to coast, 
I've travelled considerable, more or less; 
I've been to Canarsie and Painted Post, 
I've been to St. Louis and Holderness. 
But withersoever I may progress. 
With baggage enough for a fortnight's stay, 
I find, with a sorrow 1 can't repress. 
Mine is the trunk that goes astray. 



I never — no, never ! — was one to boast; 
Though me the Graces have seemed to bless 
With this honour, a greater than comes to most, 
1 bear it meekly, without duress. 
Of other affairs I make no mess; 
I'm lucky at every game I play; 
Yet, packed with what clothing I may possess, 
Mine is the trunk that goes astray. 



Others who travel comprise a host 
Carrying a million trunks, I guess; 
But never the shadow, hint, or ghost 
Of a chance one goes to the wrong address. 
But my trunk travels the whole U. S. — 
Or, as some might put it, the U. S. A. — 
You ask me does it miscarry? YES! 
Mine is the trunk that goes astray. 
104 



Balladi of a Traveller's Jinx 



l'envoi 

Prince, it worries me, I confess, 
Every time that I go away. 
And this is my major and one distress: 
Mine is the trunk that goes astray. 



105 



Underneath the Bough 

WHEN Omar smote his bloomin' lyre 
About his quadruple desire, 
There was no daily growing yell 
About the rising c. of 1. 



A Loaf of Bread is costly now; 
A Jug of Wine is high — and Thou! 
Oh, girl! the never-ending payment 
For all thy provender and raiment! 



Pity the bard who pays the bill 
For Bread and Wine and Lady Jill. 
For stationary stays — ah, curses! 
The royalty on a Book of Verses. 



Frequently 

I SHOT a poem into the air,' 
It was reprinted everywhere 
From Bangor to the Rocky Range — 
And always credited to 

—Exchange. 



1 06 



The Flatterers 

WHEN some folks meet a colyuming man, 
They have thedelightfullestway to flatter; 
And this is about the general plan 
Of the smilingly pleasant school of patter. 

" Do you know, I know a coupl6 of guys 
Who prefer your pomes to the five-foot shelf?" 

(As one who, merry and bright, implies: 
"I never could see the stuff, myself.") 



"My boy — he's still in his early teens — 
He reads your things, whether short or long, 

From beginning to end." (As one who means: 
"The little chap never was very strong.") 



"A friend of mine reads you every day— 
Hasn't missed a column in over a year; 

You mightn't believe It '* (As who should say: 

"The feller was always a little queer.") 



To the Vers Librist Who Uses 
Only the Minor Key: 

TELL me not, O mournful poet. 
Life is but an empty dream. 
Well enough, alas! I know it. 
And I'm weary of the theme. 

107 



Eheu, Fugaces 



LINES WRITTEN AFTER DR. DALY S SONG IN 

"the sorcerer," and after receiving 
constabulary reprimand for vio- 
lating a traffic ordinance. 

TIME was when Sleep and I were well ac- 
quainted. 
Time was when we walked ever hand in hand — 
A slumbrous youth, with nervousness untainted. 

No sleepier soul than I in all the land. 
Time was when things like traffic regulations 

Impressed me but as made for other men; 

I never thought a thing of cells and stations — 

Ah me! I was a fair young cyclist then! 



Talked one of cars, I paid but scant attention; 

Spoke one of gasolene, I gave no heed; 
Magnetos were a thing I'd never mention; 

And motor catalogues I would not read. 
Time was when all my woes were paragraphic; 

Time was when all my work was with a pen; 
I used to have no trouble with the traffic — 

Ah me! I was a fair young cyclist then! 



1 08 



The Bard's Annual Defiance 

BRING on the spring — I am wearied 
of winter; 
Come, O you summer — I sicken of 
cold. 
Set up my metrical matter, O printer! 
(Century 10-point, or Cheltenham 
bold.) 



Yearn I diurnally now for the gentle 
Ray of the May-day's inspiriting sun; 

Long I for song and the sweet senti- 
mental 
Talk as I walk with a Definite One* 



Go away, snow, I am wearied, I tell 
you — 
111 of the chill that has tarried too 
long! 
Sprint away, winter, I long to farewell 
you — 
Hey! for the May and the season of 



song! 



109 



Weights and Measures 

Down with a town that is windy and 
sloppy! 
Up with the cup that is symbol of 
spring! 
Ho! for the poems we writers of copy 
Make for the sake of the sound of the 
thing! 



IIO 



The Western Journalist 

7^HIS was the burden of his song — 
The Western pamphleteer — • 
"Fresh air does not a living make, 
Nor climate a career'* 

"It*s a wonderful town," said the newspaper 

man in Kansas City, Mo., 
"My job is rather an easy one — as jobs on a 

paper go. 
The boys out here are a lively crowd, our sheet is 

there with a punch; 
My house is only a mile from the shop and I 

always go home for lunch. 
I've grown attached to the breezy town" — and 

he took me by the sleeve 
And added: "Yes, I'm fond of the place, and I'd 

certainly hate to leave. 
I never can like a town so well as Kansas City, 

Mo. 
Good by ... If you hear of a job in New 

York, will you promise to let me know?" 

" I knew you'd like our beautiful town," said the 

Denver reporting guy. 
"It's sunny every day in the year, and the city's 

a whole mile high. 
Our death rate now is the lowest ever known in 

this part of the West; 
Our system of parks is perfect — it is known as the 

nation's best. 

Ill 



Weights and Measures 

The melons we get in the summer — well, you 

ought to be here in May — 
Are better, I guess, than you'll ever see on Wall 

Street or on Broadway. 
No, it isn't much of a newspaper town — that is 

its one defect. 
Good by ... If you hear of a job in New 

York, just wire me at once, collect." 



''Some town is right," said the genial, able, 

earnest slave of the pen. 
"It's a wonderful place to live, all right" — he 

was talking about Cheyenne. 
"I've learned a lot since I've been out here; 

Wyoming's a wonderful state. 
The air, the ranches, the mountains, the folks — 

the whole darned thing is great. 
I doubt if I'd like it anywhere else; it grows on a 

man out here; 
We've sunshine practically every day in the 

pleasant time of the year. 
But the newspaper game is pretty dead, and I 

wouldn't, of course, decline 
A job in New York. If you hear of one, I wish 

you'd drop me a line." 

" Los Angeles is a lovely town," said a journalistic 
youth. 

"The stories about the climate here don't ap- 
proximate half the truth. 

112 



The Western Journalist 

It's a wonderful place to live in, but the newspaper 

game is slow; 
So if you hear of a job down East, will you promise 

to liet me know?" 



"The liveliest town in the country, this," said the 

San Francisco lad. 
"The papers here are a prosperous lot, but the 

pay is pretty bad. 
I'd like a whack at the New York game, for a 

couple of years, at least; 
Just let me know, when you get back home, if 

you hear of a job down East." 



Thus ran the burden of his song — 
The Western pamphleteer — 
"Fresh air does not a living make, 
Nor climate a career.'* 



n3 



Ballade of Egregiousness 

I'VE travelled now from coast to coast- 
I came back only yesterday — 
I've been from Banff to Painted Post 
From Harrisburgh to Monterey, 
From Cedarhurst to San Jos^, 
From Santa Cruz to Valley Forge — 
And yet, on all my witless way, 
I've never called a waiter "George." 



I toured the country, same as most 
Who pilgrimage in quest of play. 
I paid two bits for buttered toast. 
And ninety cents for piche gelee. 
I was a hick, the same as they 
Who come from Huntington* or Norge f; 
But though I seemed replete with hay, 
I never called a waiter "George." 



I never was a bard to boast, 
I never was a lad to bray; 
But do I not deserve a "Pros't!", 
A cross, a wreath of laurel-spray. 
For that, in diner and cafe. 
At jitney meal, Lucullan org- 
Y, dinner, luncheon, dejeuner, 
I never called a waiter "George"? 



*Ind. 
tOkla. 



114 



Ballade of Egregiousness 

l'envoi 

Cast me, O Prince, in Hudson Bay, 
Shoot me across the Royal Gorge, 
But O remember, ere you slay, 
I never called a waiter "George." 



"5 



To the Returned Girls 

WILL you read my little pome, 
O you girls returned home 
From a summertime of sport 
At the Jolliest Resort, 
From a Heated Term of joys 
Far from urban dust and noise? 



You I speak to in this rhyme. 
You have had a Glorious Tinie 
Swimming, golfmg, bridging, dancing, 
Riding, tennising, romancing. 
On the springboard, on the raft — 
You've been often photographed. 



At the place you have forsaken. 
You have had some pictures taken, 
Pictures taken of you dancing, 
Riding, tennising, romancing. 
Swimming, golfmg, and reclining; 
Snacking, luncheoning, and dining. 



Cometh now my brief advice; 
Ladies, be ye ne'er so nice, 
Be ye ne'er so fascinating. 
Luring, drawing, captivating. 
If with interest you'd imbue us. 
Do not show those pictures to us! 
ii6 



To the Returned Girls 

Snapshots of the links and lawn 
Cause in many of us a yawn; 
(As for me myself, why, I'm 
Glad to see 'em any time) 
But — I give it to you square — 
Lots of people do not care. 



117 



The Boundaries of Appreciation 

WHEN someone pulls a droll idea, 
When someone thrusts a jocund jab, 
I laugh right out. You can't call me a 
Crab. 

The dollars that I spend are many 

To get a little bit of fun; 
I like a joke as well as any 
One. 

I never elevate mine eyebrow 

At what another thinks is rough; 
I do not have to have the highbrow 
Stuff. 

Yet nothing keeps my heart from sinking — 

Alas! how then my spirits droop — 
At jokes about the noise of drinking 
Soup. 

And though I have a quenchless yearning 

For any quip or crank or wheeze, 
I cannot smile at jokes concerning 
Cheese. 

I used to blame this lovely climate; 

But deep deliberation shows 
Me why I have so sad a time at 
Shows. 
ii8 



Efficiency 

I 

FOR one who is volltient 
That matters move along, 
It's fme to be efficient 
In labour or in song. 



II 



Avoid all kinds of effort, 
Shun every stress and strain. 

Don't put a needless burden 
Upon your heart and brain. 



Ill 

Now, in the opening stanza 
Which started rather fme, 

I made the rhymes alternate — 
Or every other line. 



IV 

("Which started" is a mouthful 

And difficult to say. 
I might have made it smoother 

By working half a day.) 

119 



Weights and Measures 



(Nor is the word alTERnate; 

I find, when I consult 
The dictionary, accent 

Is on th' antepenult). 



VI 

But if I stopped to bother 
With little things like this. 

The wear upon my engine 
Would make it skip, or miss. 



VII 

They tell me that the ''Elegy" 
Composed by Thomas Gray 

Took seven years to finish. 
At seven hours a day. 



VIII 

How absolutely sinful 

To waste that precious time 
In polishing and pruning 

The roughnesses of rhyme! 

120 



Efficitncy 



IX 



At eight nineteen this evening 
As true as I'm alive, 

I wrote that opening stanza — 
Now it's eight twenty-five. 



X 



Efficiency! That does it! 

Efficiency's the word ! 
It makes you feel that labour 

Is utterly absurd. 



XI 

Observe the Roman numerals; 

Although they are no use, 
I find them, altogether, 

Efficient as the deuce. 



XII 

Observe the 9-point Old Style 
A clear and lovely face. 

I find it efficacious 
Annihilating space. 
121 



Weights and Measures 

XIII 

I point with prideful finger 
To this efficient rhyme , 

Composed with hardly any 
Expenditure of time. 



XIV 

Composed with absolutely 
No waste of heart or brain, 

No prodigal rhythmatics. 
No lyric legerdemain. 



XV 

Having conserved my forces, 
And husbanded my art, 

I'm just as fresh this minute 
As I was at the start. 



XVI 

I waste no "punch," no climax, 

For it would be a crime 
To put a timely wallop 

In an efficient rhyme. 

122 



Efficiency 

XVII 

Here's my eflficient poem. 

You think it's bad? You do? 
Like most efficient persons, 

I never thought of you. 



123 



Footlight Motifs 
I 

MRS. VERNON CASTLE 

THE fair and utter grace of you. 
The witchery of your glance, 
The young, the lovely face of you, 
Delight me when you dance. 



The lithe and supple charms of you. 

Softer than melted air. 
The rippling, billowing arms of you- 

O Lady, you are there! 



Or that I end this lay of you. 
Fain would I ask one thing: 

I love most every way of you. 
But — Lady, must you sing? 



II 

PHOEBE FOSTER 

T SIGHED for themes to write on 
^ A subject for my pen 
To work its matchless might on — 
Worthy my skill — and then — 
124 



Footlight Motifs 

A maid hight — Phoebe Foster 
Swam — dove — into my ken. 
I gazed and gazed and sighed, amazed; 
**Oh for a worthy pen!" 



Ill 

GABY DESLYS 

THY voice hath naught of the Lorelei lure 
To hold men in its thrall; 
Of pitch and key thou art oft not sure 
At all. 



Thy form and features, thy teeth and hair 
To others may seem a feast. 
I know of a thousand maids as fair, 
At least. 



Of piquant ways and I-don't-know-what, 
Of merriment, art, and wit. 
It seemeth to me that thou hast not 
A bit. 



I never was one to raise my brow, 

I never was one to scoff; 

But I simply can't see, my dear, where thou 

Get'st off. 

125 



Weights and Measures 
IV 

NATALIE ALT 

GENTLE, modest little flower," 
(Gilbert's self is whom I quote). 
Were the warder of this Tower 
But a bard of strength and power. 
Not a paper pote — 
This would be a lasting line 
Telling you you are divine. 



"Sadly lacking in our land," 
(Quoting as I start to sing) 
Are the maidens I can stand 
Staring at and hearing — and 
Wholly everything. 

Falter, feet! and metre halt! 
When ye seek to sing Miss Alt. 



"This the close of every song" — 

This the finishing of mine: 
Every lyric, short or long. 
Always tries to tap the gong 
In the final line. 
Wherefore I confess to be 
Nutty over Natalie. 



126 



The Italics Are Richard Gifford's 

FERSE sweetens toil, however rude the sound; 
She feels no biting pa7ig the while she sings; 
Nor, as she turns the giddy wheel around, 
Revolves the sad vicissitudes of things. 



No pang to me my minnesinging brings; 

I pen my poems by the very pound. 
(They say, whene'er one strikes the lyric strings, 

yerse sweetens toil, however rude the sound.) 



My reckless muse, ungirdled and uncrowned. 
Sings on, sings on of cabbages and kings; 

Skyward she soars, or digs below the ground — 
She feels no biting pang the while she sings. 



Coherence to the well-known winds she flings; 

She cares not if the clock of Time be wound, 
Nor recks she, as she plays, if wealth have wings, 

Nor as she turns the giddy wheel around. 



She muses on the souls confined and bound; 

On barren winters and on sapful springs; 
And as she stands upon her airy mound, 

Revolves the sad vicissitudes of things. 
127 



Weights and Measures 

I like a poem when it sort of swings, 
And floats and sinks — at times you think it's 
drowned — 
And lives, and dies, and falls away, and clings. 
But, in a long career, I've never found 
Verse sweetens toil. 



128 



To the Railroad Men 

O BROTHERHOOD of Engineers, 
O Brotherhood of Train- and Firemen, 
Gaze on the suppliant salty tears 
Wept by this lowh'est of the lyremen. 



O mighty railroad presidents, 
Debating how to help the nation 

By saving corporate expense — 
Harken to mine interrogation: 



What is there in the common law, 
The statutes of exchange and barter, 

From Portland to Communipaw, 
What is there in the railroads' charter- 



What is there — something, I am sure; 

What is there— this my query weighty — 
That makes you keep the temperature 

Of so-called sleeping cars at 80? 



129 



To Myrtilla of New York 

'~pHE Rockies, I own, are a beautiful sight; 
* The canyons are glories to see; 
I found in the spruce undiluted delight. 

And the pine is a capable tree; 
I throbbed when I gazed at the snow-covered 
peaks. 
And worshipped the view from the crest; 
I revelled in Nature a couple of weeks, 
But there's nothing like you in the West, 

My dear, 
There's nothing like you in the West. 



The trout are an agile and esculent fish. 

And swift are the streams where they run; 
No lovelier sight could a citizen wish 

Than Long's at the rise of the sun. 
Oh, myriad the wonders that gave me a thrill, 

And frequently I was impressed — 
But nevertheless it is true, Myrtil, 

There's nothing like you in the West — 
That's right — 

There's nothing like you in the West. 



130 



Roundel 

SPRING, again I'm due to 
Try some carolling 
Trill a note or two to 
Spring. 



Briefly, it's my cue to 

Celebrate and sing 

Her I may be true to. 



Take these flowers I strew to 
Mean most anything. . . 
I have nothing new to 
Spring. 



131 



Lines to a Beautiful and Bus- 
riding Lady 

OTHOU who wert seated ahead of 
This bard on an Avenue bus, 
Thy beauty is such as I've read of. 

O'er which I could make quite a fuss. 
Thou travelledst yesterday morning, 
I deemed thee considerable queen; 
A veil, and a black one, adorning 
Thy beautiful bean. 



Though dreadful was I to distress thee, 

So meek, inarticulate, shy 
This bard that I feared to address thee, 

To risk an indignant reply. 
And yet, as I sat in repentance 

And felt on my features thy veil, 
I struggled to frame thee a sentence, 
And struggled to fail. 



But here in the calm and the quiet. 

When all is inspiringly still, 
I rather imagine I'll try it. . . . 

I shall. I'll go further. . . . I will. 

lady accoutred and geared with 
That veil, for thy pardon thy sue: 

1 feared that my face interfered with 

Thy veil as it blew. 
132 



« Ladies, Whose Bright Eyes" 

LADIES, whose bright eyes illuminate the 
' city. 

Blinding us who fare along the city streets, 
May I voice a plea, briefly, in a ditty 
Fashioned in a way unknown to Keats? 



When the light from you scintillates and glimmers, 
"Ladies, whose bright eyes" are either blue or 
brown, 
Don't you sort of think you ought to use your 
dimmers 
While you're in the limits of the" town? 



133 



Lines from a Plutocratic Poetaster 
to a Ditch-digger 

SULLEN, grimy, labouring person, 
As I passed you in my car, 
I could sense your muffled curse on 

It and me and my cigar; 
And though mute your malediction, 

I could feel it on my head, 
As in countless works of fiction 
I have read. 



Envy of mine obvious leisure 
Seemed to green your glittering eye; 

Hate for mine apparent pleasure 
Filled you as I motored by. 

You who had to dig for three, four 
Hours in that unpleasant ditch, 

Loathed, despised, and hated me for 
Being rich. 



And you cursed me into Hades 

As you envied me that ride 
With the loveliest of ladies 
Sitting at my dexter side; 
And your wish, or your idea, 

Was to hurl us off some cliff. 
I could see that you thought me a 
Lucky stiff. 
134 



Lines to a Ditch-digger 

If you came to the decision. 
As my car you mutely cussed. 

That allotment and division 
Are indecently unjust — 

Labouring man, however came you 
Thus to think the world awry, 

I should be the last to blame you . . 
So do I. 



135 



Villanelle, with Stevenson's 
Assistance 

THE world is so full of a number of things 
Like music and pictures and statues and 
plays, 
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings. 

We've winters and summers and autumns and 

springs, 

We've Aprils and Augusts, Octobers and 
Mays — 
The world is so full of a number of things. 

Though minor the key of my lyrical strings, 

I change it to major when paeaning praise: 
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings. 

Each morning a myriad wonderments brings. 

Each evening a myriad marvels conveys. 
The world is so full of a number of things. 

With pansies and roses and pendants and rings. 
With purples and yellows and scarlets and 
grays, 
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings. 

So pardon a bard if he carelessly sings 
• A solo indorsing these Beautiful Days — 
The world is so full of a number of things, 
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings. 
1^6 



With a Copy of Calverley 

\ A /HEN, lady, you applaud my rhymes 
^ ^ Appearing in the public prints, 
(As you have done a dozen times), 
I wince. 



A bead (or two) bepearls my brow; 

I modestly say "Pooh!" or "Tush!" 
I'd blush, I think, if I knew how 
To blush. 

Once, when your praise was too absurd, 

I spoke of Calverley. With vim 

And scorn you said: "I never heard 

Of him." 

Tottered my reason, shook my nerve, 

I stifled an uprising sob. 
"Has she," I wondered, "heard of Irv- 
In Cobb?" 

Take, lady, then, this blithesome book — 

My friend, philosopher, and guide — 
And don't, I pray, forget to look 
Inside. 

How fair the rhymes! The verse how fresh! 

Like "one clear harp in divers tones." 
Read "Flight," "Forever," — oh, read "Prec- 
ious Stones"! 

137 



Weights and Measures 

Here, all this treasured tome throughout, 

Shall you find undiluted joy. 
You, in your classic phrase, will shout 



Yet pricks the thorn upon the rose; 

And lurks the wormwood in the cup: 
Calverley. . . . Lady, how he shows 
Me up! 



138 



Ballade of Schopenhauer's 
Philosophy 

WISHFUL to add to my mental power. 
Avid of knowledge and wisdom, I 
Pondered the Essays of Schopenhauer, 
Taking his terrible hills on high. 
Worried I was, and a trifle shy. 
Fearful I'd find him a bit opaque! 

Thus does he say, with a soul-sick sigh: 
"The best you get is an even break." 



Life, he says, is awry and sour; '^ 

Life, he adds, is sour and awry; 
Love, he says, is a withered flower; 

Love, he adds, is a dragon-fly; 

Love, he swears, is the Major Lie; 
Life, he vows, is the Great Mistake; 

No one can beat it, and few can tie. 
The best you get is an even break. 



Women, he says, are clouds that lower; 

Women dissemble and falsify. 
(Those are things that The Conning Tower 

Cannot asseverate or deny.) 

Futile to struggle, and strain, and try; 
Pleasure is freedom from pain and ache; 

The greatest thing you can do is die — 
The best you get is an even break. 
139 



ty eights and Measures 

l'envoi 

Gosh! I feel like a real good cry! 

Life, he says, is a cheat, a fake. 
Well, I agree with the grouchy guy — 

The best you get is an even break. 



140 



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